you are a snake,

for the sly beast lies

coiled in the brake

of your sleepy eyes,

lo, at your glances my weak soul dies.

woman you are

with a face so fair;

but the snake must mar

all the woman there.

your eyes affright, but your smiles ensnare.

such a poor room it was, with a well-worn carpet, shabby furniture, a dingy mirror over the fireplace, and a mean sordid look everywhere. the bright sunshine, pouring in through the dirty windows, showed up the weak points of the apartment in the most relentless manner. great folding-doors at one side half open, showing an untidy bedroom beyond, and on the other side the many-paned windows, veiled by ragged curtains, looked out into jepple street, bloomsbury.

there was a shaky round table in the centre of the apartment, on which was spread a doubtfully clean cloth, and on it the remains of a very poor breakfast. an egg half eaten, a teacup half filled, and a portion of bread on the plate showed that the person for whom this meal was provided had not finished, and, indeed, she was leaning on the table with her elbows, looking at a copy of the daily telegraph.

a noticeable woman this, frowning down on the newspaper with tightly closed lips, and one whom it would be unwise to offend.. after a pause she pushed the paper away, arose to her feet, and marching across to the dingy mirror, surveyed herself long and anxiously. the face that looked out at her from the glass was a remarkable one.

dark, very dark, with fierce black eyes under strongly marked eyebrows, masses of rough dark hair carelessly twisted up into a heavy coil, a thin-lipped, flexible mouth and a general contour of face not at all english. she had slender brown hands, which looked powerful in spite of their delicacy, and a good figure, though just now it was concealed by a loose dressing-gown of pale yellow silk much discoloured and stained. with her strange barbaric face, her gaudy dress, mrs. belswin was certainly a study for a painter.

mrs. belswin, so she called herself; but she looked more like a savage queen than a civilised woman. she should have been decked with coloured beads, with fantastic feathers, with barbaric bracelets, with strangely striped skins, as it was she was an anomaly, an incongruity, in the poor room of poor lodging-house, staring at her fierce face in the dingy mirror.

mrs. munser, who kept the establishment, acknowledged to her intimate friend, mrs. pegs, that the sight of this lady had given her a turn; and certainly no one could blame cockney mrs. munser, for of all the strange people that might be seen in london, this lithe, savage-looking woman was surely the strangest. indian jungles, african forests, south american pampas, she would have been at home there, having all the appearance and fire of a woman of the tropics; but to see her in dull, smoky london--it was extraordinary.

after scrutinising herself for a time, she began to talk aloud in a rich full voice, which was broken every now and then by a guttural note which betrayed the savage; yet she chose her words well, she spoke easily, and rolled her words in a soft labial manner suggestive of the italian language. yet she was not an italian.

"twenty years ago," she muttered savagely, "nearly twenty years ago, and i have hardly ever seen her. i must do so now, when providence has put this chance into my hands. they can't keep a mother from her child. god's laws are stronger than those of man. rupert would put the ocean between us if he could, but now he's in new zealand, so for a time i will be able to see her, to speak to her, to hold her in my arms; not as her mother,--no, not as her mother,--but as her paid servant."

she turned away from the mirror with a savage gesture, and walked slowly up and down the room with the soft sinuous movement of a panther. her soft silk dress rustled as she walked, and her splendid hair, released by her sudden movement, fell like a black veil over her shoulders. she thrust the tresses back from her temples with impatient hands, and her face looked forth from the cloud of hair, dark, sombre, and savage, with a flash of the fierce eyes and vicious click of the strong white teeth.

"curses on the man who took me away from her. i did not care for him, with his yellow hair and pink face. why did i go? why was i such a fool? i left her, my own child, for him, and went out into the world an outcast, for his sake. god! god! why are women such fools?"

for a moment she stood with uplifted hands, as if awaiting an answer; but none came, so, letting her arms fall, she walked back to her chair, and lighting a cigarette, placed it in her mouth.

"i daren't use a pipe here," she said, with a discordant laugh, "it would not be respectable. but spanish women smoke cigarettes, russian women smoke cigarettes, so why should not the maori woman smoke them also. respectable, eh! well, i'm going to be respectable now, when i've answered this."

this was an advertisement in the paper, which read as follows--

"wanted, a companion for a young lady. apply by letter, dombrain, 13, chintler lane, city."

"apply by letter," muttered mrs. belswin, with a sneer. "indeed i won't, alfred dombrain. i'll apply in person, and i think i'll obtain the situation. i'll hold it, too--hold it till rupert returns, and then--and then----"

she sprang to her feet and blew a cloud of smoke with a mocking laugh. "and then, my husband, i'll match myself against you."

"salve dimora casta e pura."

the singer was coming slowly upstairs, and, as he finished the line, knocked at the door.

"stephano," said mrs. belswin, with a frown, glancing at the clock; "what can he want so early? avanti."

the door opened and stephano, the singer, a tall, lithe italian, with a beaming smile, presented himself and burst out into a torrent of greeting.

"buon giorno cara mia! ah, my beautiful lucrezia! my splendid norma! how like an angel you look this morning. gran dio che grazia. signora, i kiss your hand."

he dropped on one knee in an affectedly theatrical manner and pressed his lips to mrs. belswin's hand, upon which she twitched it away with a frown, and spoke roughly to her adorer.

"what do you want, ferrari?"

"niente! niente! but to pay a visit of ceremony."

"it's not customary to pay visits of ceremony at ten o'clock in the morning. i wish you would go away. i'm busy."

"che donna," said the italian. with a gesture of admiration, and taking off his hat, sat down on the sofa.

stephano ferrari was a handsome man in a wicked way. he was tall and slender, with a dark, expressive face, white teeth, which gleamed under his heavy black moustache, wonderfully fine eyes, and a bland, ingratiating manner. english he spoke remarkably well, having been for many years away from his native land, but had a habit of interlarding his conversation with italian ejaculations, which, in conjunction with his carefully-learnt english, had a somewhat curious effect. being the tenor of an opera company in new york, he had become acquainted with mrs. belswin, who was also in the profession, and had fallen violently in love with this splendid-looking woman, who had so many of the characteristics of his countrywomen. mrs. belswin did not reciprocate this passion, and treated him with marked discourtesy; but this only added fuel to the fire of his love, much to her annoyance, as ferrari had all the ardour and violence of his race strongly developed, and was likely to prove dangerous if she did not return his passion, a thing she felt by no means inclined to do.

at present he sat smiling on the sofa before her, adjusted his bright red tie, ran his fingers through his curly hair, and then twisted the ends of his moustache with peculiarly aggravating complacency.

"don't you hear what i say?" said mrs. belswin, stamping her foot angrily. "i'm busy. go away."

"bid me not fly from those star-like eyes," sang the signor, rolling a cigarette with deft fingers. "ah, che bella musica. if the words were but my beautiful italian instead of this harsh english. dio! it hurts the throat, your speaking--fog-voiced pigs that you are."

"take your abuse and yourself somewhere else," replied mrs. belswin, bringing her hand down sharply on the table. "i tell you i'm busy. you never leave me alone, stephano. you followed me over from america, and now you stay beside me all day. why do you make such a fool of yourself?"

"because i love thee, carissima. let me light this; not at thine eyes--stelle radiante--but from thy cigarette. grazia!"

mrs. belswin knew of old that when ferrari was in this humour nothing reasonable could be expected from him; so, resigned to the inevitable, she let him light his cigarette as he wished, then, flinging herself down on her chair, looked moodily at him.

"how long is this foolery going to last?" she demanded caustically.

"till you become the signora ferrari."

"that will never be."

"nay, angela mia--it will be some day."

"was there ever such a man?" burst out mrs. belswin, viciously. "he won't take no for an answer."

"not from thee, donna lucrezia."

"don't call me donna lucrezia.

"perchè?"

"because i'm tired of opera. i'm tired of you. i'm tired of everything. i'm going to leave all the old life and become respectable."

"the life of a singer is always respectable," declared ferrari, mendaciously. "you mean to leave me, signora?"

"yes, i do."

"ebbene! we shall see."

"what claim have you on me? none. i met you in america two years ago. we nag together for a time, and because of that you persecute me with you ridiculous attentions."

"i love thee."

"i don't want your love."

"veramente!"

"no!"

she spoke defiantly, and folding her arms stared steadily at her persistent lover. the italian, however, was not at all annoyed. he simply threw his half-smoked cigarette into the teacup, and rising from his seat stood before her smiling and bland as ever.

"non e vero, signora? ebbene. i am the same. we met in san francisco two years ago. i was a singer of opera. i obtained for you engagements. i loved you. carissima, i love thee still! you are cold, cruel, you stone-woman, bella demonia. for long time i have been your slave. you have given me the kicks of a dog. pazienza, i finish soon. i have told you all of myself. you have told me all of yourself. i come to this fog land with you, and now you say, 'addio.' bellissima, signora, but i am not to be talked to like a child. i love you! and i marry you. ecco! you will be signora ferrari. senza dubbio!"

having thus delivered himself of his determination with many smiles and gesticulations, signor ferrari bowed in his best stage manner, sat down in his chair and began to roll another cigarette. mrs. belswin heard him in silence, the clenching of her hands alone betraying her anger, but having had two years' experience of the italian's character, she knew what to do, and controlling herself with an effort, began to temporise in a highly diplomatic manner.

"i suppose no woman could be indifferent to such love as you profess, stephano, and some day i may be able to answer you as you wish--but not now, not now."

"and why, cara mia?"

"because i am going to see my daughter again."

"your daughter?"

"yes! you know i told you all my past life. i was a fool to do so, as it gives you a certain hold over me. but i am a lonely--woman. your manner was sympathetic, and so--well it's only natural i should wish to confide in some one."

"so you confided in me. per l'amor di dio, signora. do not be sorry, i am simpatica! i feel for you. ah, dio! it was a terrible story of your husband, and the parting in anger. basta! basta! think of it no more."

"i must! do you think i can forget the past by a simple effort of will? happy for me, happy for all, if such a thing could be. but--i have forgotten nothing. that is my punishment!"

"and now, cara?"

"now i am going to see my dear daughter again."

"she is in london, then? ah, che gioja."

"yes! she is in--in england."

"and il marito?"

"he is at the other end of the world."

"bene. let him say there!"

mrs. belswin nodded her head in savage approval, then began to walk to and fro, talking rapidly.

"while he is away i have a plan. in the paper there is a notice requiring a companion for my daughter."

"how do you know?"

"because it is put in by a mr. dombrain. he is rupert pethram's solicitor. oh, i know him, better than he thinks. all these years i have been away from my child i have watched over her. ah, yes! i know all of her life in new zealand. i have good friends there. i found out when her father brought her to england, and that is why i came over here so quickly. i intended to see her again--to speak to her--but without revealing i was her unhappy mother. but--i was afraid of pethram. yes, you may smile, stephano, but you do not know him. i do."

"e incrédibile. you who fear no one."

"i do not fear him physically," she said proudly, with a savage flash from her fierce eyes. "i fear no man in that way. but i am afraid because of my daughter. she thinks i am dead. it is better than that she should know i am a divorced, disgraced woman. if sir rupert were angry he might tell her all, and then--and then--oh, god! i could not bear to see her again. she would despise me. she would look on me with scorn. my own child. ah, i should die--i should die!"

the tears actually came into her eyes, and for a moment softened their fierceness. this woman, hard and undisciplined, with savage instincts derived from a savage mother, yet felt the strong maternal instinct implanted in the breast of every woman, and quailed with terror as she thought of the power her former husband had to lower her in the eyes of her daughter. ferrari, of course, could not understand this, having been always accustomed to think of mrs. belswin as an untamed tigress, but now she had a touch of feminine softness about her which puzzled him.

"ah! the strangeness of women," he said philosophically. "ebbene, now il marito is away, what will you do?"

"i'm going to see mr. dombrain, and obtain the situation of companion to my own daughter."

"not so fast, signora! she will know you."

"no; she will not know me," replied mrs. belswin softly; "she does not remember me. when i left her she was a little child. she thinks i am dead. i go to her as a stranger. it is hard; it is terribly hard. i will see her. i will speak to her. i will perhaps kiss her; but i dare not say, 'child, i am your mother!' ah, it is cruel--but it is my punishment."

"it is a good plan for you, cara mia! but about me, you forget your faithful stephano!"

"no, i do not," she said coaxingly, for she was afraid he would spoil all, knowing what he did; "but you must wait. i want to see my daughter--to live with her for a time. when my husband returns he will know me, so i must leave before he sees me. then i will come back to thee, carissima."

"basta!" replied ferrari, with great reluctance. "i do not wish to keep you from the child. i am not jealous of il marito."

"you've no cause to be--i hate him."

"look, then, the love i bear you, carissima mia. though all your life i know. though you have had husband and lover, yet i wish to make you mine."

"it is strange," said mrs. belswin, indifferently. "i am not a young woman; my good looks are going; my past life is not that of a saint; and yet you would marry me."

"because i love thee, carissima," said ferrari, taking her hand. "i have loved many before, but none like thee, bella demonia. ah, dio, thou hast the fierceness of the tiger within thee. the hot blood of italy burns in thy veins, my lucrezia borgia. i am weary of tame women who weep and sigh ever. i am no cold englishman, thou knowest. the lion seeks but the lioness, and so i come to thee for thy love, stella adorata."

he caressed her softly as he spoke these words in his musical voice, and the woman softened under his caress with feline grace. all the treachery and sleepiness of the panther was observable in this woman; but under the smoothness of her manner lay the fierceness of her savage nature, which was now being controlled by the master hand of the italian.

"you will let me go to my daughter, then," she said in a soft, languid voice, her fierce eyes dulling under the mesmeric influence of his gaze.

"as you will. i can deny thee nothing, regina del mia vita."